


junk in my trunk

by kaermorons



Series: Treefucker Geralt [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Nipple Play, Object Insertion, Other, Scars, Sounding, Unplanned Pregnancy, sentient trees, sort of lol - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:22:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27124460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorons/pseuds/kaermorons
Summary: Geralt gets a scar on his face, he's insecure, they fuck, and who knew trees would need to wear condoms?Written for Kinktober Days 17 & 20: Scars/Object Insertion & Nippleplay/Sounding
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Tree
Series: Treefucker Geralt [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1962697
Comments: 17
Kudos: 92
Collections: Witcher Kinktober Ring





	junk in my trunk

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sixth of nine prompts I'm doing for Kinktober 2020! Was feelin low-moto so I decided to combine these two prompts. The other prompts for this month I've shared with my good friends [fishie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_about_the_fish/pseuds/what_about_the_fish) and [anarchycox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchycox/pseuds/AC-DD) (link to her kinktober pseud).
> 
> See you Friday.

It had been a rough year on the Path.

Money had been tight with Jaskier deciding to take a sabbatical, so Geralt had to get used to starving on the road again, never a comfortable feeling. He was lonely, and he only had himself to look out for himself. He’s spent months trying to hide the terrible scar across his face, cascading over his eye socket. It had drawn more looks than usual, especially when it had healed wrong. Damned chorts.

He was ready to hibernate for the winter, just lock himself in his room and not come out until spring. His brothers hadn’t arrived yet, and Vesemir was out in the valley, gathering supplies for the coming season. His feet took him (consciously) to the winding track in the forest around Kaer Morhen, over the familiar ridge to his tree.

The tree, as ever, was delighted to see him, shaking in anticipation and relief. It stilled, however, when it took in Geralt’s saddened face, his black mood. One willowy branch reached out, the barest edges of leaves tickling over the scar on his face. He turned away, ashamed.

“It’s just a scar. Got a hundred more, making me ugly.”

The tree croaked in dismay, more branches coming to hold him close. Geralt let himself be moved, the branches pushing under his clothes and gently petting over scars the tree knew better than anyone with eyes.

“I would...I would understand if you didn’t want to…” Geralt bit his lip, looking down in embarrassment. “If you didn’t want me around this year.”

The tree shuddered, shoring itself up to speak.

_ “Want...scar. Want…you.”  _

Geralt yelped a little when the tree pulled the hunting knife out of the sheath at his hip, waving it in the air like an extension of its own branches, the sharpest leaf on the tree. The point came to rest about half an inch in its trunk.

“What are you doing?!” Geralt cried, moving to take the knife out. It left a mean gash in the smooth pine bark.

_ “Always… a scar. Want...you scar.” _

The tree showed him.

It was an old tree. It had seen likely centuries of growth, had seen Kaer Morhen sacked, had seen many vicious winters and hailstorms, leaving pocked edges to twisted roots, knots, and marls that even magic couldn’t smooth out. It was scarred, too.

And it was now asking for a scar from Geralt.

“Wouldn’t I hurt you?” he asked, a little breathless at the depth of trust the tree had in him. The tree almost seemed to laugh at that, a delighted rustle of its leaves. Geralt runs a hand over one of the nearest scars the tree had, tracing it with the same reverence the tree showed his own scarred body. “Right. Magic tree,” Geralt mumbled. “Are you...are you sure?” he asked, holding the knife up, in a hold better suited to carving.

A vine wrapped around his wrist, twining in a spiral. The tree was sure. Geralt steeled himself and drove the knife in.

It took a while, but his name stood out from the whitebark, thick and claiming letters, declaring his devotion when he finished. He moved the vine down to the end of his hands, around the hilt of the knife again.

“I want your scars, too,” Geralt said.

The tree almost seemed to hesitate, but Geralt puts his arms wide, letting him claim his mark in turn. When the knife rose, the tip only pressed in enough to puncture his chest, blood welling up and spilling out of his skin.

He gasped when the thinnest of the tree’s branches came up and  _ pushed under his skin. _ He steadied himself on the larger trunk, pain blooming sharply. That late-summer scent of sacred pine and spices indicated the tree’s sexual fluids had also pushed under his skin, leaving him thrumming with magic. Quick as a flash, the knife glinted in the tree’s grasp before slicing at its own vine, severing the piece inside of Geralt.

It left a thin, raised line over Geralt’s heart. It looked like a scar to anyone who didn’t know what did it. He was very aware of it inside him, settling him and grounding him back on the earth. “I’ve got you on me, now,” Geralt smiled, tears in his eyes. “In me.”

The tree was thinking about their children, the bits of forest they’d planted together over the world. The tree wanted to spread their family out over a broader distance, to expand its network of magical roots. It knew little of human biology and even less of Witcher biology, but it trusted the chaos in its branches, in its heartwood. The magic there would take things the rest of the way.

* * *

Something...happened on the Path that year. Geralt noticed it while walking back from a drowner nest contract down in Vizima. He’d been dreading leaving Kaedwen in recent years, something about the lonely look of the trees he’d passed (children he’d planted) on the way out slowing his pace to his usual route to Novigrad.

It manifested as a slight weariness about him, even when under potions and concoctions. The scent of thyme had become obtrusive to his senses, driving him to be ill on the side of the road. Then came the back pains. He kept his posture perfect while in Roach’s saddle, and he still stretched out a little bit before and after hunts, but that kind of radiating pain from his hips up had him waddling some nights.

He had never been afflicted by this kind of sensation before - sure, the migraines were familiar to any Witcher’s everyday ailments. Still, when it came to getting violently sick in the morning, the sensitivity to smells, his skin flushing (actually  _ flushing) _ when he felt most exhausted, Geralt was at a loss. He spent a long time in meditation, thinking on the events of the past few months.

Perhaps he’d been cursed by something. His medallion hadn’t buzzed aside from his regular hunting, however. He hadn’t strained a muscle or a tendon; his body would have healed it. This pain came and went in waves. There were even some mornings where he’d wake up feeling pleasant, happy. He’d stroke his fingers over the tiny branch in his pectoral, and—

_ Oh. Fuck. No. _

He made for Kaer Morhen at midsummer.

* * *

The tree saw its Witcher, its Geralt, pounding up the trail, over the ridge, and down to its base, angry as a wet cat. The tree said nothing. It was just happy to see Geralt again.

“You…” Geralt stuck a finger up at it, his eyes wild and upset. “What did you do?” he demanded.

The tree had no idea.

“I have been down on the path, my back has been hurting, I’ve been—” his voice hitched. “I’ve been  _ crying, _ for fuck’s sake, I can’t even  _ think _ of certain smells without getting sick, and now—!” Geralt tore at his armor, shedding it carelessly onto the ground until—

The tree saw his breasts.

They were normally well-defined, strong from his upper-body strength, and nicely protruding from his chest even on a good day. But now, they were downright  _ swollen, _ stretch marks indicating they were heavy with— 

“You somehow got me pregnant.”

The tree didn’t know what to say to this. 

“Luckily, there’s at least one sorceress on the Continent who didn’t  _ laugh _ at me, but while she took away the  _ tree growing in my guts, _ the symptoms were left.” The tree made a soft, sad groaning noise, one of its branches coming to stroke over his abdomen.

Geralt knew for a while that the tree was interested in having a little tree family. It was in its biological urges to propagate and spread its seeds wherever it could. Geralt felt, on some level, that the system they had going for the first few years was enough but that it was bound to escalate as well. He gave a soft pat to the nearest branch and let himself be caressed and pet. They would mourn their child how they knew best.

_ “Pret...ty…” _ the tree groaned.

Geralt looked up at the tree, eyes latching onto where he’d carved his name into the white birch bark. “Take me up?” Geralt asked softly, breathless. 

The tree complied, pulling him up into a quickly-woven nest. He’d mentioned to Vesemir earlier that he’d forgotten some things up at the keep and had to return to retrieve them. It was a flimsy excuse, but seeing the tree in the summertime again only brought back fond memories of his youth and “reforesting” the damaged lands.

The tree didn’t waste its energy on words, but as it divested Geralt of the rest of his clothes, it made soft creaking noises that could only be described as  _ coos. _ The tree took control as it always did, petting over Geralt’s tits and kneading into his back like it had several winters ago. Geralt groaned and went onto his front, letting the tree hold him and press at him.

Little by little, his anger seeped out of his body while some of the other tendrils pushed into him. The strangest part of walking around, for all intents and purposes  _ with child, _ was that his thighs would get damp, and his dick throbbingly hard for little to no reason. He’d brought himself off so many times even his younger self would have been impressed by his stamina.

It was a blur of sensation like it always was up in the nest. His hips were wrapped with more branches than he ever remembered getting on him at once, and he groaned when two of the sucker branches latched onto his nipples. It wasn’t that there was a tongue inside the branch, but the motions the tree went through could have been mouths, the other pressing branches could have been hands. This had never been about justifying his sex with the tree, that he could have imagined that he was fucking another person-shaped person. He knew he was fucking a semi-sentient tree, and he damn well  _ liked _ it.

The massaging on his breasts alleviated some of the aching pain that had followed him around the Continent that season. The tension in his back was decimated by the careful, slicked motions of the firmer branches behind him. The whole place only smelled like that summertime scent again - salt and sacred pine. It was the only scent that Geralt could stand, the only one that didn’t overwhelm him. Perhaps it was the oversensitivity his body was barrelling toward that wiped out the rest of his senses, though.

He groaned as one of the thinnest twigs, like the kind he had embedded in his chest, drew itself along the length of his dick, teasing and curious. He could see it working, even through the growing thicket of branches gathering around him, and that meant he could see—

He could see it pushing  _ into _ his dick, into the slit like it belonged there.

Geralt shouted and fought not to squirm against his holds, watching the small tendril push deeper, deeper. It felt like nothing Geralt had ever, ever felt before. He’d heard about this kind of thing happening in brothels, in noble sex dungeons.  _ Pretty sure they don’t use a magical tree, though, _ he thought hysterically as it plunged deeper, aided by the slick pouring off of every branch around him. He felt sticky and hot, his body trembling minutely as the tree impaled his dick from the inside.

It wasn’t done there.

He felt his ass being stretched out, preparing him, and only realized it through the haze of pleasure-pain when one of the larger branches he favored pressed in. He groaned long and loud. “Do  _ not _ knock me up again; I will be very, very upset,” he managed to pant, a moment before another branch came up to fill his mouth and fuck into his throat.

He felt like a strung-up hunting prize, held aloft on needles and string, keeping him together and pulling him apart all at once. The sensations made him want to scream and thrash and lay down and take it simultaneously. His mind, unclear about its wants, decided that shorting out was the best bet.

He only passed out for a moment, but when he came to, another branch was fucking into his ass, and a smooth, slick one was stroking his dick around the length of the tendril inside of it. His eyes rolled back, and he whined. The sucking branches at his breasts laved and nibbled at his nipples, the hard buds  _ aching _ with—with something, something he didn’t want to think about.

The tree gently removed the long tendril from his cock, and pressed so deeply into his ass that he screamed around the branch fucking his throat. He came with a lightning-white sensation, nearly passing out again.

He came back to himself woefully empty, though settled atop a pile of his clothes. The tree liked to play with him, but it always took care of him in the end. The suckers on his nipples hadn’t relented in the wake of his orgasm, making him keen and squirm under their attentions.

He wondered, for a half-moment, if the tree would try to press into his breasts the way it had with his dick, and the thought only lasted a half-moment because the tree managed to do  _ something _ with his breasts that had him coming again. He cried out and shook through it. The tree had filled him up good, the evidence of their coupling leaking out of him and over his thighs. He groaned at the sensation, his throat rather sore from screaming around a tree dick.

They rested together, the latent heat from the branches seeping in to soothe his bones. Already, he felt some kind of magic undoing the symptoms he’d carried around with him on the Path that season. It was a relief not to be crying every time he saw an infant, making it scream back at him. It was a relief, not having pain radiating around his shoulders and lower back and chest. It was sad if he was honest with himself.

“That felt very nice,” Geralt admitted, sighing. “I can’t do that again, though. Not on the Path. Do you understand?”

The tree groaned in response, petulant and pouty, as much as a tree could be.

“Don’t be like that. I didn’t say no. I said, not right now.”

The tree’s branches shivered, like how he’s seen a cat’s tail do when it was particularly happy.

“Maybe in a few seasons. We can try again in autumn. I have to think about how to hide it from the others, though. They wouldn’t know what they smelled on me, but they’re smart, unfortunately. Let’s stick to acorns in spring, okay?”

_ “A...corn…” _

“You know what I mean.”

Geralt redressed, the tree let him down onto the ground, and Geralt shuffled back to his horse.

He had a lot to think about before winter.

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on [tumblr](https://kaermorons.tumblr.com/).


End file.
